"Well, well, young man, you _have_ brought a message--haven't you?" exclaimed the grocer, fidgeting about. "A pretty mixed-up company that would be--wouldn't it? Old Cowles sitting down to table with a minister of the gospel, and a student for that sacred calling, and such like folks. No, no; that wouldn't be consistent. Tell them that I am much obliged, but--" "Now, Mr. Cowles," exclaimed Tom, seizing his hand, "you must come. I shall feel dreadfully hurt if you refuse,--and they all want you to so much. And, you know that if it was not for your kindness--" "There, there, boy," interrupted the storekeeper, his black eyes flashing through tears, "don't talk in that way. All is, if it will please you, I'll come. But how do you go to the river, Monday?" "O, the missionary is to get a team." "Well, just say to him that my horses are at his service." We will not dwell upon the dinner in the log-cabin parsonage, during which "irrepressible" Bub--his clerical tastes sharpened by Tom's example--took clandestine possession of the attic study, and, constituting himself preacher, audience, and choir, undertook to conduct divine service. Having given out the first hymn, he drowned the missionary's words, as the latter said grace, by stoutly singing,-- "I want to be an angel, An angel with a stand." Neither may we linger amid the tender, solemn scenes of the Sabbath following, the last Tom was to spend in the rude frontier sanctuary. It was evening of a beautiful day in May, when the money-lender's capacious carriage, drawn by his trusty grays, deposited its passengers at the landing, to await the steamer. What a lifetime of thought and emotion seemed crowded into that interval of waiting, as Mrs. Jones stood with Tom clasped closely, whispering words of mingled foreboding, hope, and caution!